Silly America
by AsWeAreNow
Summary: "Silly America, that's not a meal!" The years only get worse, until present day— America doesn't have anyone that really cares, but he doesn't let anything drag him down. Except he does. T for depressing themes and substance abuse.


"Silly America, that's not a meal!" England chided, taking the cookie from his hand. "You can have it when you're done eating dinner."

"Aww," America pouted. England ruffled his hair.

America knew that he had to eat dinner first, of course. He just didn't want to eat England's food.

He sat with England at the dinner table. England handed him a plate, the food so burnt that America couldn't even tell what it was supposed to be? _How does England stomach this? _He wondered.

He hesitated a moment, not wanting to put the inedible food in his mouth. England looked up at him, frowning. "Is something wrong?"

"No," America answered. The last thing he'd ever want to do was hurt England's feelings— he'd never want to hurt England at all because he loved England, but sometimes he thought that maybe he only felt that way because of his utter reliance on England, as a set of colonies— and so he quickly reached for his fork and began to eat.

He wondered what his brother, Canada, was doing. Hopefully he was eating better food.

England gave him the cookie afterwards.

(Linebreak.)

"Foolish America, that's not a meal," England said.

America was on his sixth hamburger. He blinked innocently at England. "Who are you? I don't think I've ever met you before."

England gaped. All of the other nations went silent. "You don't remember me? I'm your family!"

"I don't have a family. I live alone. I always have." America was just fucking with England, of course. Of course he remembered England— how could he not?— but he was messing with England because he was bored.

America didn't like being with the European and Asian nations. He figured he was much more sensible. After all, he was standing in this room with them because Germany had put an Austrian charge, and because Japan had beat the shit out of China and then proceeded to spit on America like America actually gave a shit.

But he was there. There was no denying that.

He looked around for his best friend, Canada. He had really hoped Canada would stay out of the war, but of course he hadn't. America could only really hope that he was taking care of himself.

He left the meeting shortly after. It had been stifling, and America immediately headed to a bar. He figured that if he was going to be stuck in a foreign country, meeting with nations he didn't like, he would try not to remember as much of the experience as possible.

He marveled the way that he could make whole nights disappear, as if he'd never lived them. A true luxury.

(Linebreak.)

America had a nightmare, but all he could really remember was that 'Complainte pour ste Catherine' had played in the background. So he shook it off, even if it had been so startlingly vivid that it felt he hadn't slept at all.

He fed his cat. Hero rubbed against his legs and then darted straight to his food bowl, as if he thought formalities were necessary. America chuckled and sat on the floor next to Hero, stroking his fur.

Hero finished quickly enough. He darted into America's lap, brushing up against him in an almost desperate manner. America petted him for a long time before eventually placing him to the side and continuing about his day.

Feeding his cat was easy. Other things were much more challenging.

Like talking to his boss. His boss ran things by him every once in awhile to see if America would approve, since he was supposed to represent the American people. America had the sneaking suspicion that, similar to certain unnamed political races, the 'majority' wasn't actually the _majority_.

"Alfred, I had this idea..."

America listened half-heartedly. He wasn't even really paying attention. He was trying. He really was trying.

Finally, "Alfred, what do you think?"

"Umm..." America murmured, "does your wife have any ideas?"

His President started saying something rapidly. Once again, Alfred found himself zoning out, despite how hard he was trying to pay attention. All he knew was that he'd said the wrong thing.

"S-Sorry. I'm not quite sure," America said finally. "Have a good day." With that, he hanged up.

After the call, he cleaned his house, did some work, and then poured fresh water into the cat's water bowl. He took some sleeping pills and took a nap.

...

The next day, America made some coffee. He hadn't slept well. He drank, sipping from the mug as he walked around his house.

Today was going to be special. He'd gotten a gift for his neighbour, Canada. It wasn't Canada's birthday or anything— he'd just found something that he thought Canada would love.

He'd been walking around a shopping center and had found a colouring book based off of Canada's favourite book. And he'd stared at it for awhile, debating getting it, before finally deciding it that he couldn't imagine it with anyone else except for Canada. So he'd bought it.

America debated wrapping it up in a box, but he feared that'd be too formal.

Fifty minutes later, he was getting out of his car. He grabbed the colouring book and knocked on Canada's door, a huge smile plastered on his face.

Canada opened the door. "Oh, America. Hi. What brings you here?" He asked.

"I... I..." Why was America nervous now? He was never nervous. Still, he suddenly felt anxious.

All America really wanted was to see Canada smile. They weren't really friends anymore, but America couldn't help noticing that Canada wasn't doing enough of that recently.

The book suddenly felt heavier. America shifted slightly. "I brought you a gift." He shoved it forward like a broken machine, movements somehow seeming both mechanic and slightly jerky.

Canada peered at it for a moment. He picked it up, smiling weakly. "Oh, thanks. It's... It's really beautiful," he said, a bit breathlessly, flipping through it. "Thank you so much." And with that, he hugged America.

America hadn't really expected that. He hugged Canada back, just a little, and pulled away.

They said nothing for a moment. Finally America said, "Well, have a good day. Bye."

"Bye," Canada said back. America backed away, to his car, and left.

America spent the rest of the day thinking about it. He was incredibly happy. Maybe it was enough. Maybe they could be friends again. America missed Canada sincerely. They hadn't really talked in a long time.

He reached for his phone. If he called, would Canada respond?

America texted a quick 'Hi' and put his phone back down.

He waited awhile, but Canada didn't respond, so he took sleeping pills and went to sleep.

...

America didn't really have family. He couldn't think of a time when it had been more painfully obvious than right now.

He'd woken up feeling like shit, a coughing, blubbering mess, and then he'd called England and said he wasn't coming in. But England had said to show up anyway, and so he did, because it wasn't like he had another job or even a reason to stay in because he was sick _this one time _when he had a couple hundred more years. (Of course, this was no guarantee— but if England could do it, he damn well could.)

America couldn't help but feel something akin to envy. He was better than all of them, obviously. He was the hero. Still, America couldn't help but be a bit jealous of England and France. Austria and Germany. What was more, all of the European nations were connected— you know, like a family. They had ties that America could never hope to accomplish with his neighbors.

And his neighbors— Mexico wasn't talking to him, and when he thought of Canada, it just made him kind of sad.

So in a way, he supposed, he was glad to be at the World Meeting. It gave him something to do, even if he'd still rather be at home.

And then it was over.

He went home, and then realized he'd rather be at the World Meeting than being at home. It was too late now, since he was home now and also felt like absolute, utter garbage.

He laid down on the couch and tried to sleep. He waited for awhile, and it didn't work, so he got up and poured the rest of the bottle of sleeping pills into his hand.

He felt like shit— worse than he'd felt in decades. He coughed, wincing at the pain in his chest. It was fine, he told himself. He'd be better in the morning.

There had been about half a bottle left. He took all of them, a few at a time. He didn't know why he'd been sleeping so utterly shit recently. America knew better than to take so many sleeping pills, not because it would actually do anything but because it wasted money. He liked to imagine, though, that maybe he wouldn't have nightmares and would actually sleep through the night, since he'd done this.

America knew that wasn't how it worked, but he wasn't going to think too much into it. He couldn't help but imagine both England and his wallet screaming at him, because there is nothing better to do than think about anthropomorphic characters when you're trying to sleep.

...

"AMERICA! Wake the fuck up!" England shook him. "What did you do? Are you hurt?"

"What?" America grumbled. Damnit, why couldn't he just fucking sleep for once? He'd been having a good dream, too!

"What did you do?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"There's an empty bottle for sleeping pills on the counter. Did you do anything?"

"No— well, I took them, but—,"

"How many did you take?" England asked.

"I dunno. There was about half a bottle—,"

"Damnit, America." England hugged him. "Why would you... you weren't trying to top yourself off, were you?"

America grabbed his shoulder lightly. "No, of course not. Don't be ridiculous. Even I'm not that stupid. It would take way more than that."

England just squeezed him a bit tighter. "Why are you so light?" He wondered. He tried picking America up, and then figured that he could do so with ease. "Have you been eating?"

"No. I'm not that hungry these days," America replied. He felt England wilt a little around him, sinking into him just a bit more.

"When was the last time you ate? When?"

"A few days ago. It was... a granola bar, I think."

England squeaked. "That's not a meal, America!"

He could feel England tensing up, ready to ask him a question, so he quickly said: "Why are you here?"

"You said you were sick, so I thought I'd come take care of you."

"Okay... but why?"

"Well, you're sick," England said, as if this made sense.

It didn't. "Why did you come to take care of me? Why would you care?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I came to take care of you— at least to make sure you're all set. And anyway, the first thing is to get you to eat something, right?"

America was about to say something, and then he fell into a coughing fit. He covered his mouth and looked away, coughing desperately for a few minutes before finally, finally, the itch left his throat.

England just frowned, concerned. He rubbed America's back.

America elbowed his arm away. "Don't touch—," he started coughing again.

England got him a glass of water. America sipped it slowly, trying more to sooth the burn in his throat than actually drink water.

"How often have you taken sleeping pills?" England asked.

"A lot. I can't really sleep anymore without them."

"But it was just the normal amount before? For how long?"

"It was the normal amount. I don't remember how long it's been since I've slept without them either." America lowered his glass of water, frowning. "What?"

"What?"

"You have that look on your face. Like you're gonna say something I don't like. What is it?"

"I was thinking... I was thinking that I should take you to the hospital," England whispered.

"No." America said. He felt a bit sick. Really, really sick.

He shot up and raced to the bathroom, and vomited.

England followed him, frowning. He leaned next to America, rubbing circles into his back. "It's okay, love. You're going to be okay." England took a deep breath. "I think I should take you to the hospital. America, you haven't been eating, you've been abusing sleeping pills, and today you've taken a lot. You're really sick... please let me take you."

"Nah, it's all good," America said quietly, voice hoarse. He started coughing again. "Nothing's wrong with me."

England kept rubbing his back. It was comforting, even if America was acutely aware of the fact that England was still touching him even when America had told him not to.

_When did it come to this?_ America wondered. _Why did I start questioning his intentions? Isn't this what I wanted?_

It felt like his lungs were being ripped apart, and each cough was so, so painful. _Isn't this what I wanted?_

Finally, finally, it was over. He leaned heavily against England, blinking away tears. "Fine. Let's go."

England helped him to the car. "Everything's going to be fine, America."

"Promise?" America couldn't help but think, somewhat annoyed with himself, that he sounded like a little kid.

"Promise."

**Perhaps I went a bit far with this one. I wrote this because of— you guessed it!— some personal shit. It's mostly just meant to tell of the importance of not letting yourself slip into certain ruts. Some things just aren't okay. I've fallen into a few things myself— sometimes, you don't realize something's wrong until you're convinced no one else would care. Personally, I always just stopped thinking too far into things that I was doing that might've been bad, similar to how America did. It's a sort of 'out of sight, out of mind' thing, and it makes bad habits seem that much more OK when they really aren't. Every time I thought I ought to tell somebody, I realized that I'd already gone this long with (bad habit) without anyone else noticing, so I figured they wouldn't care and I just kept it to myself.**

**So, just a reminder: If you think you've fallen into a bad habit, don't wait for when you feel like clawing yourself out of it. Hunger, non-sobriety, gambling (even the feeling of not being cared for can be intoxicating, in a sense)— all of that stuff is addictive, and it's much harder than you think to get some distance. It's perfectly okay if you can't stop bad habits by yourself, but you shouldn't let them eat you up entirely.**

**Additionally, someone always cares. Please remember that. Whether it's your family, or your friends, or a professor/teacher, or even just your country, someone cares. You're never completely alone.**

**Anyway, a review would be wonderful. Stay safe and hydrated, and have an excellent day.**


End file.
